


Perfectly Routine

by sock_bealady



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Medical Kink, Molestation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 07:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12206565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_bealady/pseuds/sock_bealady
Summary: A lot has changed in seventy years.  So doctor's exams are a little more . . . invasive than they used to be.  It's nothing Steve can't handle.  There's no reason to get panicky about it.He isnotgoing to panic.





	Perfectly Routine

**Author's Note:**

> Don't blame me, blame the Hydra Trash Party meme.
> 
> . . . 
> 
> Okay, you can blame me a little.
> 
> The Prompt is [here.](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=5477855#cmt5477855)

With everything that's changed over seventy years, Steve muses, they should have been able to make exam tables more comfortable. Or, at least less _cold._ The fake leather is sticking to his thighs, reminding him every second of the intrinsic ridiculousness of the cotton gown he's wearing. Whose idea was it to make an item of clothing that's completely open in the back? On the walk over from the nursing station, his ass wasn't actually hanging out, but that was mostly thanks to the mercy of the charge nurse who let him keep his briefs.

The clinic is situated several stories under one of those anonymous Manhattan skyscrapers that multiplied while he was away. According to Director Fury, it's sole purpose is "routine primary care" for SHIELD agents and anyone deemed a SHIELD asset. For a secret government facility, it has an oddly innocuous lobby, with lime green walls, cheerful educational posters, and pamphlets on everything from the risks of radiation exposure to the transmission of gonorrhea. Maybe to counteract the lack of windows, the wallpaper tends toward bright and gaudy. The room where he had his vitals taken and blood drawn was adorned with a loud pink floral pattern. This room, where the doctor is expected to make an appearance any minute now, features zig-zags in varying shades of blue.

Just to give himself something to do, he tugs off the clear tape that holds a tuft of cotton against the crook of his arm. The small puncture from the blood draw is already indistinguishable. At least the poke of needles is familiar, even if nothing else in this science fiction future is. After almost a week of dealing with the carefully constrained eagerness of the SHIELD scientists, he'd given them permission to draw a full pint today and donate whatever wasn't needed to the researchers so they could study the serum. The nurse told him that the last vial out of the dozens he donated to science in the forties was lost, destroyed, or used up by 1947. Strange that that last physical trace of him could vanish so quickly.

He shakes off the morbid thought. Yes, this is weird. Falling into the ocean and waking up seventy years in the future wasn't really something he planned on when he joined the Army. Still, the world hasn't changed so much that it doesn't need good soldiers. He just needs to get back out there, start doing some good, and the rest will fall into place. That's what today is all about.

The door swings open (finally) and a man steps in with a stethoscope around his neck and a clipboard in his hands. He's wearing a loose-fitting shirt and pants in navy blue. ( _Scrubs,_ Steve reminds himself, _They're called scrubs._ ) There's no sign of a white coat and gender isn't as much of a giveaway as it used to be, thank _God_ , so Steve stops himself from assuming this is the doctor.

The man gives him a bright smile and extends his free hand. "Good morning, Captain Rogers. I'm Dr. Harwell."

Okay, it's a little bit of a giveaway. Steve shakes the offered hand and gives a small smile of his own, as if it's completely normal to be meeting his new doctor while his ass hangs out. "Good to meet you, doctor. And, it's just Mr. Rogers now. I resigned from the Army on Monday."

The man's grip is firm. At least his hand isn't cold. "Well, let's see about turning it into _Agent_ Rogers, then." Under the guise of eye contact, Steve lets himself study him. Dr. Harwell is younger than he would have expected - late thirties, maybe. There are a few strands of gray threaded through his curling red hair. He's almost as tall as Steve himself, and despite the baggy garments, Steve can tell that he's . . . fit.

He glances down a little too quickly. Of course he's _fit._ SHIELD seems to be a paramilitary organization. They probably have readiness standards, even for non-field personnel.

Harwell apparently misinterprets his expression. His voice goes gentle. "Now, there's absolutely nothing to worry about, Mr. Rogers. Do you mind if I call you Steve?"

He shrugs. "Sure."

"Okay. Steve. The pre-field physical exam is standard for all new SHIELD agents and all agents returning after a sabbatical or medical leave. If this exam is a bit more . . . thorough than you're used to, it's only because we haven't had a case like yours before and we need to do everything in our power to make sure you're healthy. I'll try to explain everything as we go along, but if anything is unfamiliar, don't be afraid to ask questions. I'm here to help, right?"

"Right."

"Okay. Then, let's start with the annoying part. The questionnaire." With a conspiratorial grin, he shifts the clipboard in his hands and pulls out a brightly colored pen. "Now, most of this stuff we know from the history books, so I think I can skip travel history. Unless you've done much jet-setting in the past week."

Steve laughs because it's obviously expected and makes a mental note to look up what "jet-setting" means. He wishes he could make a physical note on the ragged scrap of notepaper he's taken to carrying around, but naturally the ass-less gown doesn't come with pockets.

"We don't need to dwell on previous medical history either. Records dug up all your old SSR files. You had a pretty rough go of it before the serum, didn't you?"

Steve nods along. "I don't recommend it. Asthma wasn't fun, but rheumatic fever was the worst."

"I can imagine. So, that leaves us with current symptoms, plus anything considered too indelicate for nineteen forties medical records. Have you had any pain or shortness of breath recently?"

Steve shakes his head. "I was sore for about a day after . . . after they woke me up, but the doctors at the other facility gave me a clean bill of health."

"Not bad for falling twenty thousand feet into the Atlantic."

Steve forces another laugh.

"What about nausea? Or decreased appetite?"

"No. Well . . . I overindulged from a taco truck on Tuesday night."

"And nobody thought to warn you about the side effects, huh? Well, they say a burned hand is the best teacher."

Steve snorts wryly. It's getting easier to talk to Harwell. Something about his easy demeanor and big, warm smile.

"No long-term effects from your Mexican misadventure?"

"None."

"Good. Dizziness or light-headedness?"

"Nothing like that."

"Excellent. So, that just leaves us with sexual history."

Steve turns beet red. "Beg your pardon?"

"Any previous sexual partners or experiences," the doctor says in the same light tone he'd used to joke about taco trucks, "Coming of age when you did, I'm sure you're aware of the risks of sexually-transmitted . . . sorry, _venereal_ diseases."

"Well, yeah, but I'm not having any symptoms like that. I mean, I'd tell you if I did." There's a guarded edge to his voice that he knows is entirely inappropriate to the situation.

"I believe you, but we know so little about your physiology that it's hard to know if you're harboring a silent infection. I'm sure you don't want to risk passing something like that to any future partners."

"Of course not, but . . ."

Harwell rests his pen on the top of the clipboard. "Steve, I understand these questions must seem . . . strange to you. Invasive." Steve nods a little and Harwell's expression becomes sympathetic. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, though. Mentalities surrounding sexuality have . . . changed significantly while you've been away. These questions are absolutely standard, not just for new recruits, but for any patient undergoing a physical exam anywhere in the country. I could lose my license if I didn't ask them, so let's blunder through, shall we?"

Steve feels himself turning redder. He shakes his head briefly - not a denial, of course, but just to clear it. He reminds himself that he's in friendly territory for the first time since 1943. Harwell isn't trying to ambush him, so he should stop reacting like he's cornered. "Sorry, Dr. Harwell. The question just caught me off guard. It's nothing to worry about, though. There's . . . no exposure risk."

Harwell makes a small _keep going_ sort of gesture. "You're saying . . ."

Friendly territory. It's not an interrogation. _Get a grip, Rogers._ "I don't . . . I don't have any previous . . . um, sexual partners."

Harwell arches an eyebrow a bit skeptically. "That makes my job a bit shorter. If it's true."

"I wouldn't lie to you. I've seen what VD can do, I just . . . have never had cause to worry about it personally."

"Are you sure about that? Keep in mind, we've isolated syphilis from the bones of three thousand year old mummies."

It's _not_ an interrogation. "Very sure. I'm told it's the kind of thing one remembers."

The self-deprecating joke is enough to soften the doctor's suspicion, but he still gives Steve a scrutinizing look - one that makes him feel like he's eight years old again and under the sharp gaze of Sister Mary Thomas. "Keep in mind, 'sexual partners' can include men as well as women."

"Yeah, I kind of figured." He'd looked up the gay rights movement three days ago after seeing two men kiss over their morning cups of coffee. Wasn't that something else? He lingers on the memory for a moment. That's what America has become while he was away. Not a nation under siege. Not a last, desperate talisman against tyranny. A more innocent place, where people build families and lives and focus their energy on trying to be _happy._

"And all kinds of contact involving the genitals. Vaginal. Anal. Oral. Manual."

Steve almost chokes on a bit of spittle. "Trust me, doctor. No concerns there."

Harwell scribbles something. "Then, I'm putting you down as the lowest-risk ninety-three year old I've ever treated. Congratulations, Captain Rogers."

Steve snorts again and fights a smile. "Thanks?"

"And I see you had your diagnostic imaging done before you were discharged last week. Recheck lab work should be running by now. Leaving nothing but the physical exam." He sets the clipboard aside and fits the stethoscope to his ears. "We'll start with just a listen to your heart and lungs."

He presses the bell of the stethoscope to Steve's chest. Steve stares down at it, seeing the words 'C. Harwell, MD' etched into the metal.

"No murmurs," Harwell reports, "And a heart rate of sixty or so would be low by normal standards, but from your previous medical records it seems your basal rate is a bit lower. Are you feeling any discomfort, Steve?"

He shakes his head. No point in telling him that some part of his brain still expects Hydra agents to burst through the door at any moment, guns blazing. He doesn't want the doctor to think he's a nut. "Just . . . strange place, unfamiliar questions. Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about," the other man echoes while moving the stethoscope, "Now, deep breath in." Steve breathes, trying not to notice how warm the hand holding the stethoscope is. It's hard to ignore, though, when he moves the instrument to his back, sliding under the gown to press it against bare skin. "And in again, nice and slow . . . and out . . . and we're done." Harwell puts the stethoscope back around his neck. "Now, if you could just remove your gown, we can go on."

Steve ruthlessly silences the part of his mind that shouts alarm at this. He hasn't been captured. He's not being stripped of his gear. Undressing at the doctor's office is hardly something to get worked up over. He tugs loose the knot behind his neck and lets the gown drop. In a weird way, stripping in front of a doctor is worse than just showing up in his underwear, the way he did for all those Army physicals. Back then, at least, he'd had the easy routine of a locker room, with a cubby labeled with his name, as well as the anxious camaraderie of dozens of equally-naked men there for the exact same purpose. With just him and Harwell in the room, pulling off the gown makes him feel . . . vulnerable. Small, even. It's _not helping_ with his resolution to stop seeing the exam room as enemy territory.

Harwell takes the gown and puts it on the small counter behind him, so that his body is between Steve and it. He reaches for Steve's neck and Steve instinctively flinches back. Harwell hesitates and a hurt expression flicks across his face before it fades back into a professional mask. "I'm just going to palpate your lymph nodes, Steve. Your glands. Any swelling could be a sign of disease."

Steve silently chastises himself. He's at a government medical facility. He is _not_ about to be garroted by Hydra. "Sorry. Wartime habits, you know?"

"I do know, unfortunately." Steve holds still as the man rubs with his thumb and first two fingers just below the corners of his jaw. His touch is light at first, then firmer. After a moment, he shifts his hand down and repeats with even firmer pressure right over Steve's throat. "We see quite a few veterans signing up at SHIELD, to say nothing of our own agents who've seen action." His hand is lighter now, almost caressing. "Steve. The reactions that we do see are often associated with PTSD. Shell-shock, you'd call it, though our understanding of the causes has expanded significantly. So, I have to ask . . . were you ever captured or imprisoned during your military service?"

Steve shakes his head, dislodging the man's hand a little. "No."

"I'm not just asking for psychological reasons. The . . . conversation we just had about risk factors? Those apply whether the . . . experience was consensual or not."

"No. _God,_ no." Steve coughs to cover up the way his throat has tightened, remembering those nights in France when Bucky would wake up screaming and none of the Commandos would tell him why. "I know what you're getting at, but . . . I was never captured. Not even for an hour. You can check my service record."

"I'm sorry. I had to ask."

"I know, doc. You're just trying to help." Steve says it mostly to remind himself.

Harwell rubs his bare shoulder for a moment in a comforting way. Steve fixates on the feel of his fingers. Up and down. After a moment, the man taps the underside of his bicep. "Axillary lymph nodes next." Steve obligingly lifts his arms and the other man repeats the strange palpation. It's a bit odd how thorough he's being. Steve's mom checked his glands plenty of times when he was a kid - he needed it more often than he liked to think - but it had always been just a cursory feel of his throat. Harwell is rubbing small circles just below his arm, his fingers sliding down towards his ribs and out over his pectorals. After more than two minutes, he repeats the motion on the other side. Still, it doesn't prepare Steve for the moment when Harwell nudges his knees apart and says "Inguinal lymph nodes next."

Before he can even realize he doesn't understand, Steve is spreading his legs, letting the doctor step a little closer. One big, warm hand rests on his knee for a moment, squeezing gently, before tracing up his thigh toward his groin. Steve jumps when Harwell's fingers come to rest on the delicate skin just below his groin. Harwell seems genuinely surprised. He lifts an eyebrow. "No one has ever palpated your nodes before?" His tone is nothing but innocent.

Steve is red again. _Friendly territory, Rogers._ He clears his throat. "No. Sorry."

"I'm the one who should be sorry, Steve. I keep forgetting that medical practice today is so very different from what you're used to. I'm just going to feel for any swelling on the inside of your thighs. Okay?"

"Okay."

His hands are slower, but just as . . . thorough as before. They slide down and up the crease of his thigh, even dipping under the white cotton of his underwear a few times. Steve shifts a little and his face flames when the movement causes the back of Harwell's hand to bump against his dick. Completely accidental, of course. He stares at the bright zig-zags on the wall for three full minutes until it's over.

Harwell gives his knee another squeeze. "You did great. Now, I just need to do the dermal examination. If you could just hold still a little longer. This might tickle."

The man stoops and picks up his bare feet, one at a time. He checks the soles of the feet, the arches, and in between the toes. He runs his hands gently up Steve's calves. He's not pressing down anymore. His hands are gentle. Distractingly gentle.

"I'm checking for skin tumors or anything of that nature," he explains in that same steady voice, "You may not look a day over twenty-seven, but your DNA is in its nineties. We think - we _hope_ that the Super Soldier Serum was enough to boost your immune system to fight off cancer. It's all speculation, though. We didn't know how cancer worked in 1943, and we _barely_ understand it now."

He's past Steve's knees, now, and running his hands over every inch of Steve's thighs. Steve clears his throat. "Wouldn't you _see_ any tumors?"

Harwell gives him an apologetic smile. He skips the region covered by the briefs and runs both hands, warm and firm, up Steve's abdomen. "Amelanotic melanoma," he explains in an apologetic tone, "A particularly nasty form of skin cancer that likes to target us lucky fair-skinned people. It's almost invisible to the naked eye, but a skilled doctor can sometimes feel the difference in texture." He rubs up Steve's ribs and over his chest. Repeats the motion. "It's all perfectly routine, of course. Nothing to worry about."

Steve scolds himself for nerves again. 

Harwell pauses and runs a thumb over Steve's chest - a slight, scraping feeling. He smiles. "Mr. Rogers, did you shave your chest hair?"

The question catches him off-guard, and Steve blushes all over again. "Yeah. Last night."

"May I ask why? Beyond impressing your medical team with your manly beauty?"

Steve all but chokes on a laugh, even though he's blushing just as hard. "It's . . . it's just something I started doing after the serum. When I had the time. I have . . ." he gestures to his chest, "More body hair than I used to. It all started sprouting after the procedure in 1943. Like a second puberty. It was a nightmare. Shaving just helps me feel like myself again."

Harwell cocked his head. "Your body hair changed? Just on your chest? Or everywhere?"

"Mostly my chest. I can grow more of a beard than I used to, too."

"And your pubic hair?

_God,_ Steve didn't think he could get any redder. "A bit . . . a bit thicker than it used to be. That part I just live with."

"Fascinating." Harwell looks entirely unembarrassed. "I think the serum must have altered testosterone expression. It would explain many of the effects, though not all of them. I'll have the lab run a panel. Your doctors never evaluated this in the forties?"

"They . . . kind of had bigger things on their minds."

"I have no doubt. Now, hold out your arm for me."

Steve wishes the serum could just find the physiologic mechanism that enables blushing and wipe it out for good. He knows he was a bit . . . prudish, even for the forties (or so Bucky always said), but this is . . . this . . .

"Good. You're doing so well, Steve. Everything's in good shape. If you could just stand up and turn around for me . . ."

It's a little harder once he can't see the doctor anymore. Absent the man's comforting, professional face, those fingers feel different. Slower. More like they're exploring him than examining him. Steve focuses on his breathing and the blue on the walls as those hands run down his back slowly . . . so slowly. It's not the way he'd expect a doctor to touch him, but it's not something an enemy would do either. His skin feels overly-sensitive and it's all he can do to keep from jumping at each touch, yet somehow something inside him eases.

"I have to say, your skin is remarkably soft, given what we know about its strength," Harwell is saying in a soothing tone, "But, then, everything about you is remarkable, isn't it?"

Hands. Hands rubbing down his spine. Over his ribs.

"And the elasticity. To have grown like you did - over a foot in a few minutes! Your skin should have been shredded. Instead, not so much as a stretch mark. Not so much as a scar . . ."

Warm, _large_ fingers pause at the waistband of his briefs, but only for a moment. "I need to check the skin of your buttocks now Steve." Without further warning, he slides the fabric down and continues the examination. "If you could just lean forward a little . . . that's it, bend over the exam table . . ." Steve is obeying because there isn't anything else to do. He tries not to jump when Harwell's fingers massage their way straight down to his upper thighs. He jumps anyway when those fingers take hold of his ass cheeks and spread them gently apart. "Nothing to worry about."

The examination probably takes thirty seconds, but it seems to last forever. Steve feels his cock twitch and stir which is so incongruous with the situation that he doesn't even want to _think_ about it.

"Okay, Steve, straighten up and turn for me, but leave the underwear down. I need to check the rest of your skin."

Steve is already starting to turn with his briefs around his thighs before the meaning of the words hit him. "Really?"

Harwell smiles a little. "It's all perfectly normal." As soon as Steve is facing him, he rests his hands on both hips, as if to keep him there. Gently but not tentatively, those hands run in, dipping through the nest of pubic hair. "I can see what you meant. It's twice as important to be aware of your body when you have heavily haired areas. Skin tumors love to find hiding places." Harwell's fingers quest all around his groin and down behind his balls, but (fortunately) his penis and testicles are spared the manual dermal examination. Steve is staring up at the ceiling and counting to one hundred by threes by the time Harwell is done. "Okay, very good. Go ahead and cover up, now."

Steve blinks hard a few times, when he thinks the doctor won't see. The doctor sees anyway. "It's okay, Steve. Try to relax. I know this is stressful, but everything is perfectly routine. I'm going to palpate your abdomen now. Try to relax your muscles; it makes it much easier to feel things."

It's much easier to relax when there's one large hand bracing his back platonically while the other presses down _hard_ just below his ribs on both sides, then lower, then lower still. "Even relaxed, your musculature is remarkable," Harwell is saying, "The definition! The strength in it . . ."

The abdominal palpation only takes a few minutes. Much less time than the dermal examination. Steve thinks that might be because of the imaging a few days ago. That claustrophobic white . . . magnet machine. They'd showed him the images afterwards - weird black and white slices of his body cut like a Christmas ham. They'd assured him that all of that was normal too.

"Okay, Steve, now I'd like you to lie back on the table. I need to do a breast exam."

That snaps him out of memories fast. He blinks. "What?"

"A mammary exam," Harwell elaborates, "Men can get breast cancer too, and like we discussed, you have over ninety years of potential DNA damage to contend with. It will only take a minute."

Steve hadn't known that _breast cancer_ was a thing. Breasts fell under the domain of women, and women didn't like to talk about them. Once. He shakes off his reaction. It's ridiculous. He just woke up in a world with space travel and Times Square has been overrun by fifty-foot tall color movie screens, and here he is getting himself worked up because a doctor wants to do an exam. He should be grateful for Harwell's training and his thoroughness. Medical advances have come so far in sixty-six years. It's mind-boggling. A bit of discomfort is a small price to pay. 

He lies back on the cold, fake-leather table and hears the paper crackle. Harwell adjusts the table so that he's reclining back even further, flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. His hand comes up, three fingers extended. "Now, Steve. I'm going to feel your chest and your nipples, anywhere you could have mammary tissue. You'll feel some deep pressure, but nothing should hurt. Tell me if it does, okay?"

"Okay."

Steve takes slow, steady breaths while the man's hand moves in slow circles over his chest, a lazy spiral that takes it closer and closer to his nipple. "So soft. It's remarkable."

It's routine. It's not like the doctor hasn't touched him here already. This is just . . . more.

Fingers. Large, warm fingers circling his nipple lightly. Steve squeezes his eyes shut but can't quite stifle a gasp. "Very responsive," Harwell says in an appreciative tone. The fingers press a little deeper, then deeper still. It's all Steve can do not to writhe on the table. Then, the pressure eases up, but Harwell is still pinching the nub between two fingers, rolling it lightly. "Such a powerful body, and still such sensitive nerve endings . . . it's a scientific curiosity."

Steve turns his head away, reminding himself that this is _normal._ Harwell releases him and squeezes his shoulder. "You're doing good, Steve. Other side, now."

The . . . examination is just as slow and thorough as the last one. Steve keeps his face towards the wall, not bothering to respond to Harwell's occasional comments about the softness of his skin or the definition of his muscles. Just when the man is pinching his nipple and he thinks it's almost over, he feels warm breath on his skin. He jumps and turns to find Harwell bent very close over his chest, examining the nipple intently. When he sees Steve's reaction, he gives that familiar comforting smile - the one Steve is starting to wonder if he should trust. "Nothing to worry about. I thought I saw a small tumor just below the nipple. It's nothing, though. Probably a birthmark. I'll put it in your record."

He finally - _finally_ \- takes his hand away and tilts the table back up. "Everything looks perfect so far." He snaps on a pair of latex gloves. "Now, we just need to check that the plumbing is in working order. If you could just lean back a little for me . . ."

His hands are at Steve's hips and there's a lot that feels wrong about this, but Harwell obviously knows what he's doing - it's _routine._ And his hands . . . his big, warm hands . . . they feel . . . good. Yeah, Steve would rather they didn't pinch his nipples, but on his shoulder, on his knee, on his hips they feel comforting. It's enough. Enough that he doesn't struggle or even ask him what he's doing. Enough that he obeys the soft, warm voice telling him "Just lift up a little . . . there, that's good . . ." and then his briefs are tossed to the counter with the gown and Steve is totally exposed.

Harwell nudges him to sit back a little further on the table. "This will probably feel a little weird, but it's all very routine. I'm just -"

"Checking for cancer. Right." When Steve realizes his voice has turned snappish, he closes his eyes and counts backwards from ten. "Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for, Steve."

It's rubber now, not skin-on-skin, but Steve feels it just as keenly when Harwell brushes his cock aside and takes his balls in his hand. His hand bounces up and down, as if he's weighing them, then gently rolls them back and forth, kneading the testicles one at a time. "Breathe," he tells Steve with a note of amusement in his voice. Steve lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," the doctor is saying, "It's all perfectly normal, and nothing I don't see a hundred times a day. Not that it's not impressive. I suppose your penis and testicles were enlarged by the serum as well?"

Steve nods. He's kept that to himself all these years, and no one has asked. 

"That's in keeping with what we know about the serum, and nothing to worry about. Now, hold still. I need to clean things a bit with some antiseptic." The gauze wipes leave blue, soapy residues on the doctor's gloves. Steve stays very still even when Harwell brings the wipes not to his testicles but to his soft cock. "It'll be a little cold."

It's _very_ cold, but maybe that's for the best. Steve is going to humiliate himself if this goes on much longer. He's staring at the zig-zag wallpaper and the harsh blue-white light bulbs, trying to think about anything but the slow swipes of the gauze over his cock.

"And, I see you're not circumcised." 

Steve blushes. A lifetime ago - _four_ lifetimes ago when he was a kid - he'd been teased for that. "No. My mother had seen it done in hospitals and wished she hadn't. Plus, there wasn't much money for operations when I was born."

"You may have lucked out in that regard. Plenty of pediatricians still recommend it, but most of the so-called health benefits aren't really worth the paper they're written on. Europe is already doing away with the practice."

Steve tries not to sag at the unexpected surge of relief. When he was a kid, things seemed to be going in the other direction, and he'd half expected the entire male population of the world to be circumcised by now. It's good to know that if ( _when_ ) he starts seeing someone, he won't have to choose between genital surgery and life with some alien monstrosity for a penis.

"All the same, foreskins do complicate hygiene a little." Harwell is rolling the sensitive skin back to swipe beneath it with the gauze. Steve tries to listen to his voice, focusing just on that and the ridiculous wallpaper. It's better not to think about the _touch._ "But, what you lose in extra shower time, you make up for in sensitivity. As you can tell." A new square of gauze is rubbing right over the slit at the tip - over and over.

"Take it easy, Steve. You're doing so well. Now, I just need you to hold this for me for a minute." He takes Steve's hand and brings it to his cock. "Don't let the tip touch anything, not even your own skin, okay?"

He doesn't understand and it's not really okay, but he does as he's told.

"Good man." Harwell has pulled out some kind of thin, flexible plastic tube. He's changing his gloves and pulling the tube from its wrapper. The tip he dips in a clear sort of gel. "Now, Steve, I just need a urine sample."

Steve's brow furrows with confusion. "I gave one to the nurses . . ."

"I know, but we need a truly sterile sample. For culture, you understand?"

He doesn't. He stares at the gloved hands with dawning alarm. "What are you going to do?"

Harwell gently moves his hand away, replacing it with his own, and angles his dick up. "Just relax," he says soothingly, "I need to get the sample directly from your bladder so that there are no contaminants. To do that, I'm going to pass this catheter up your urethra, just for long enough to get the sample. It might feel a little strange, but it won't hurt. Tell me if it does."

Steve's breath catches, but Harwell doesn't hesitate. He takes a moment to spread a little of the gel right over the slit. "Just a little more lubricant. Nothing to get worked up over. Just helps it go in better." Then the blunt tip of the catheter is touching him _there_ and Steve grabs the edge of the exam table with both hands, squeezing until he feels the cheap aluminum hand rails dent and bend in his grip because there's just the slightest pressure, and then the thing is _inside_ him, pushing his dick open from within in a way that feels entirely unnatural. There's buzzing in his head. He reminds himself to breathe. He reminds himself that it doesn't hurt. Harwell was right, it doesn't hurt.

Instead of just pushing it in, the doctor is moving the tube back and forth in small thrusts. His other hand depresses a syringe at the other end of the catheter and Steve gasps as he feels the tip of it _growing_ inside him.

"Try to relax. I just need to . . . check urethral integrity."

Steve nods and clenches his jaw as he feels the bulb of the thing slide back and forth, making its way slowly deeper inside him.

"Almost there. You're doing so well."

It's an odd push-tug from within that makes Steve's skin crawl - makes him want to launch himself off the table and plow through the nearest door like he did when he first woke up in what felt like an elaborate trap. He doesn't. He dents the metal a little more and keeps himself still, even when the pressure is deep, bumping against his bladder like a needle. Even when he feels something give and his bladder starts to release and drain and he has to keep tears of humiliation out of his eyes because this is all _normal_ and _he's_ the one who's wrong.

"There we go. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Steve dares to look. Urine is collecting in a clear bag at the foot of the exam table. The catheter is . . . well. But, the doctor's free hand is rubbing gently over his thigh as if he gets how embarrassing it all is. He doesn't comment directly - that would make it worse - but he gets it and that helps.

"I'm going to remove the catheter now."

It's easier going out than in. Harwell pulls back on the syringe and the tube shrinks down to its previous size. A few gentle tugs and the damn thing is out of him and Steve is panting like he's been through a fight.

"You're okay. I'm just gonna clean you up a little." Harwell wipes a few drops of urine with a gauze square. "There. Now. Only one thing left and then you're done." He snaps his gloves off and pulls out a pair of metal arm-like attachments from the base of the exam table. Their purpose doesn't become clear until he snaps them into place and Steve sees the stirrups. "Put your feet in these, okay? Scoot down and get yourself comfortable."

Steve stares. And stares. And because this is a doctor and it's what you _do,_ while he stares he lets his body slide down the exam table, lifts first one leg then the other to rest his ankles in the stirrups (why, _why_ did he do that?).

Harwell smiles and squeezes his knee. "You're doing so well for me." 

And it's like there's electricity under Steve's skin and he doesn't know if he loves or hates it, but there's nothing in between. His voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. "What are you going to do?"

With steady eye contact, Harwell lifts a contraption of shiny metal. "This is a proctoscope. I need to put it inside you - up your rectum - so that I can get a good look around. It's nothing to worry about."

Forget buzzing, there's a _roaring_ in Steve's ears. His breath comes in short gasps that almost remind him of an asthma attack. He doesn't leap off the table - he _doesn't_ \- but he turns his head towards the wall and squeezes his eyes shut.

There's a warm hand on his shoulder and Harwell's voice is suddenly all concern. "Hey. Hey, what's this about? Never had an examination before?"

Steve pushes out a breath. Holds it. Clenches his jaw. "Not like that." His voice is almost steady.

"That's okay. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I know you're not used to twenty-first century medicine. It's normal to be a little nervous." The hand is rubbing in slow circles. "I shouldn't have started off by showing you the instrument. Looks like some kind of torture device, huh? Don't worry, we'll work up to it. By the time it goes in, you'll be nice and ready. Won't hurt at all, I promise." He pauses. His other hand rests on Steve's hip. "The thing is, though . . ." The other hand, too, starts rubbing in soft circles. "I'm gonna need you to work with me. This kind of exam can't be done without your cooperation. You just need to trust me a little longer, then it'll all be over."

Steve stares at the wall. Blue on blue on blue. Harwell's been as good as his word. He _hasn't_ hurt him. Moreover, he's already touched Steve everywhere that matters. Steve has been quiet - been _good_ \- and let this man run his hands over every part of him because he's a _doctor_ and he's _doing his job._ If this were . . . if it weren't right, would he have done that?

It's just one more thing.

"What do I need to do?"

He hates how small his voice sounds, but Harwell smiles. "Just relax and follow my directions. You're gonna be fine." He pulls on another pair of gloves and steps between Steve's legs, still suspended in the stirrups. There's a large tube of lubricant in one hand. The other, he lays on the back of Steve's thigh. "Scoot down towards me a little more."

Steve does.

"Good, now I'm going to move the stirrups to get your knees back a little." He adjusts the arms, moving Steve's ankles a little out to the side and back towards himself. He can feel how that makes his spine arch and his hips lift. "That's it. Perfect. Now, I need to stretch you open with my fingers. Just one to start. Take it easy."

One hand holds the back of his knee, reminding him to keep it in place. The other is slick with clear gel. It slides between the globes of Steve's ass, spreading the slick until it's right over his hole and pressing lightly in a way that sends shock waves through Steve's whole body. "You're very tight. It's not unusual for virgins. Just try to relax for me."

There's pressure (too much too strange, _pressure_ ) and then the alarming but not painful feeling of something _giving_ and he feels the tip of the finger inside him. Wrong and strange and overwhelming and worse - a hundred times worse - than the catheter had been. _Relax,_ Steve reminds himself, but how?

"Easy. You're doing just fine."

With little circling movements, Harwell spreads the lubricant. His finger pushes and tugs at the muscle in every direction, sliding a little deeper . . . a little deeper . . . Steve focuses on breathing in and out, but Harwell seems to be stroking the upper wall within him, as if feeling for something. 

When he finds it, it's like a touching a live wire. Sensation floods and screams through Steve, forcing a gasp out of him. He can feel his cock twitching - _filling_ even. "Wh . . . what . . . ?"

"Easy. Take it easy, Steve. That's your prostate. Sorry, I should have warned you but I wasn't expecting it to be quite that sensitive. Most men get a little jolt when it's examined, but yours might be the most sensitive I've ever evaluated." Even as he speaks, his finger keeps moving gently over that spot, setting off little tremors that blended and ran together. "It's okay. It's a good thing. The more pleasure you get from this, the easier it'll be to relax." The finger draws back, pushes forward, brushes the spot again. And again. "Feel that? You're already loosening up. Doing so well. I'm going to put another finger in, okay?"

He doesn't give Steve time to react, just shifts his hand until his middle finger is sliding in alongside the index, bringing with it a stretch that borders on burning. Steve focuses on breathing and breathing and _breathing,_ but when _two_ fingers press against his prostate, he jerks and nearly bucks off the table. Harwell chuckles softly. "Settle down. It's alright. Do you need me to get restraints to help you hold still?"

That cuts through the haze enough that Steve says "no" a little too quickly.

"Lie still, then, and let me work. Won't be much longer."

The fingers stretch and scissor, taking a break every minute or so to rub his prostate again, keeping Steve in a constant state of jittery expectation. He keeps his body still through force of will. Mostly. But, no matter how much he silently pleads with it, his cock refuses to listen to reason. It's decided that these little sparking touches are a Good Thing. It shows its approval by thickening, slowly but steadily, until he's becoming obviously erect and Harwell can't pretend not to notice anymore.

"That's nothing to worry about. It's a completely normal physiological reaction. Yes, yours is a bit more . . . enthusiastic than most, but that's not a bad thing. You're just overly sensitive, that's all."

He's _thrusting_ with his fingers now, and brushing that spot on each stroke. "Your prostate does seem hardwired to your genitalia, though. Perhaps more than most. It doesn't mean anything . . . necessarily. Yes, when the time comes, you may find you enjoy anal intercourse more than other types. Doesn't mean you have to seek out men if you prefer women. It's just . . . one more aspect of yourself to be aware of." He adds a third finger and it stings a little - enough to make Steve whine deep in the back of his throat, but not enough to wilt his cock, which is hard enough that it's starting to ache. "Easy. It's okay. Good boy . . ."

Steve loses track of time while he's laid out like that, with Harwell's gentle, terrible fingers working him open, loosening him until he can easily thrust with three, then four. The words are starting to blur together. All he remembers later is how they made him feel: warm and electric and vaguely disturbed. He's drawn back to himself a little when Harwell's voice cuts through the haze. "Doing so well, looking so beautiful . . . I'm going to put the instrument in now. You're ready. Just stay nice and open for me . . ."

Harwell's clean hand rubs over the back of Steve's thigh, and Steve all but leans into the touch, half-mad with sensation and nameless want. The lips of the instrument are metal, but warm and well-lubricated. He whimpers a little as it slides into him, but accepts it, yielding to the doctor's firm deliberation. There's an almost unbearable _stretch_ as it opens, and then a quiet click as it locks into place. "There," Harwell croons, "You did it. I just need to have a look around."

Steve is vaguely aware of the other man's face very close to his ass as he peers in. He whimpers softly with need. Almost absently, Harwell moves one hand to his cock and starts to stroke it lazily, drawing small grunts and gasps out of Steve even as he struggles to hold still.

"And, that's that."

Harwell. Standing. Grinning. Suddenly business-like. Taking his hand away from Steve's cock.

Steve pants. He's dripping sweat. Despite his best efforts to subdue it, a frustrated moan escapes.

Harwell cocks his head, looking down at him. "Are you alright, Steve?"

No, he is damn well _not_ alright! He's wrecked, spread open and on display, and his cock is harder than glass and he needs to come more than he ever has in his life.

He doesn't say any of this, but Harwell seems to guess it. His hand rests on Steve's hip and rubs gently. "Some stimulation is normal. Natural. Release, too. It's perfectly normal. Would you like me to help you?"

Steve pants and chews his lip and squirms and finally remembers what a nod means.

Harwell smiles. "Okay. Just settle down. Be good for me. I'll take care of you."

One glorious hand wraps around his cock. The other slides into him, reaching through the proctoscope to press against his prostate again. To rub it back and forth while the other hand strokes and Steve can't say which is the cause of the fireworks going off behind his eyelids.

"You really do look beautiful like this." Harwell's voice is furtive. Low. "So sensitive. So receptive. Don't worry, Steve. I'll give you exactly. What. You need." On the last word, he tugs and twists and presses and Steve is _gone,_ his vision whiting out as he spurts streams of come, shocks and tremors running through him and colliding and reforming over. And over. And over.

Afterwards, he wonders if he might have passed out for a few seconds. He's next aware of cold clarity and the uncomfortable tug of the proctoscope sliding out of him. Harwell is removing his gloves and tossing them in the trash as if nothing has happened. "Okay, Mr. Rogers, we're all done here. You can go ahead and get dressed. I'll be writing a medical report for Director Fury. And . . . we'll have to wait on the lab work to say for sure, but I'd say we can start fitting you for a uniform. Welcome to SHIELD."

Steve doesn't remember much of the rest of the day.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

After getting an orderly - one of _theirs_ to escort the dazed Steve Rogers to his cab, Chuck Harwell spends a few furtive minutes in the men's room, washes his hands, and then sees two more patients. His dalliance with Rogers, however enjoyable, has set him back on schedule. Basically, the rest of his morning is a wash. He writes the report for Fury during the last five minutes of his lunch break. He could have done it in two minutes; reports for normal physical exams are notably boring, especially when one has to leave out the interesting bits.

Later that evening, safe in his apartment with a glass of cognac in his hand, he sits down to write the interesting bits. His report goes on for several pages, detailing every word, every response he can remember. Every tiny reaction. Every spot on Rogers's body that made him go tense or go lax. At the end, he pauses, takes a sip, and collects his thoughts to write the conclusion - probably the only part of the report anyone will ever read.

_"It goes without saying that the subject SR is physically impressive. Laboratory results and preliminary testing suggest that the original 1943 reports exaggerated his abilities, but not significantly. His risk as an enemy combatant cannot be overstated, nor can his potential value as an asset."_

He takes a slow breath to steady himself, because the next paragraph is a necessary part of his job, but he'll never come to like it.

_"Should he become intolerably detrimental to our aims, sufficient physical injury should be enough to cause death, although chemical and toxic methods are less reliable. Therefore, in the event of execution, traditional methods such as firing squad are recommended over lethal injection, gas inhalation, or electric shock."_

He remembers Rogers's face - flushed, his eyes unseeing. He thinks about his body unknowingly pressing itself into his hands. No, he never likes to write those recommendations, but this time it feels particularly bitter. With luck, it will never come to that. He writes on.

_"Possible reactions to reprogramming are difficult to predict, but this does not mean re-education should be abandoned as an objective. Given the advances made from the study of Subject JB, direct reprogramming of the neural structure remains a possibility, although their physiologies are subtly different. SR may also be tractable for subtler psychological manipulation."_

Another slow sip of cognac. Rogers looked so beautiful as he came.

_"There is no previous history of significant sexual trauma that the evaluator could detect. The creation of such trauma remains one option to create 'handholds' for future reprogramming, but in this evaluator's opinion, such methods may be counterproductive, as they could decrease the efficacy of the psychological mechanisms already available."_

He flexes his fingers, remembering what it felt like to be _inside_ Steve Rogers. 

_"As detailed earlier in the report, one of Subject SR's defining character traits is his respect for authority. As long as that authority seems deserving in his eyes, he is likely to submit himself to it, even at cost of discomfort. We can therefore posit that an authority figure who gains SR's trust may be able to manipulate him to serve our objectives. For obvious reasons, competing influences on him (especially Director Fury) would have to be eliminated to prevent muddling of the message. Significant work would have to be done to reshape his world view and adjust his core beliefs. In the opinion of this evaluator, however, Subject SR shows the necessary qualities for re-indoctrination and may, with proper guidance, be an asset to our organization."_

Chuck sits back and finishes his drink. There. That's the best he can get it. He really hopes that the higher-ups don't manage to fuck this up somehow. 

He signs the document, loads it to a secret server that's supposed to be unhackable, and attaches it to an email. 

_ATTN: Alexander Pierce, RE: Steve Rogers_

He hits the send with the sort of satisfaction some men feel when they pull triggers. Everything is alright. With time and discipline, everything in this world will be made right. 

Hail Hydra. 

__fin_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated. If you caught the reference to the zombie-infested primary care clinic from hell in Mockingbird Vol. 1, then you, sir or madam, are my favorite.


End file.
